


Flotsam and Jetsam

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Injury, Mild Smut, Squabbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2020-07-11 22:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: The prompt was for Barba to have his crotch stung by a jellyfish and for Benson to have to...assist him (pre-relationship) but this thing got way out of hand. I realize it ignores a lot of the laws of, you know, reality, but I hope you don't judge me too harshly ;)





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr. Barba, glad you could join us.”

Barba shook the offered hand and managed to fake a convincing smile. “Thank you for having me, Judge Palmer. You have a—”

“Call me Frank, we’re not in court,” the judge laughed.

“—lovely yacht. Yes, of course, sorry. And…Rafael.” He didn’t fidget, but he wanted to. He didn’t like being surprised. He _particularly_ didn’t like being surprised when he was standing in swim trunks and a t-shirt.

“Make yourself at home,” Palmer said with a wave of his hand. “We’re waiting for a few more guests before we launch.”

“Thank—” Barba started, but Palmer had already turned away. Barba looked at the young woman beside him, instead.

She pursed her lips into a pout. “What’s wrong, Rafi?” she asked, running a finger down his chest.

“You didn’t tell me your father was going to be here,” he said, pitching his voice low.

“Who cares? He’s gonna be talking business anyway.”

“It’s not—Business? What kind of business?” But before she could answer, he continued: “I’ll never be able to set foot in his courtroom unless I want to disclose—”

“Dis _close_ ,” she said, somehow making the word sound dirty. “Rafi, you _disclose_ every time you get your dick sucked?”

He drew a sharp breath and looked toward her father; he was ten yards away, talking to the captain who would be piloting Palmer’s private, and impressive, yacht. “I’d like to keep what little career I have left,” Barba muttered

“I don’t know what that means. But you were a lot more fun in the bar. I’ll get you a scotch.”

“Listen, maybe we should—” He broke off at the sound of voices behind him and started to turn.

“Roger, it’s about time, we were just about to leave without you,” Palmer said.

“Right, sorry. This is Max Dennison who I told you about.”

“Of course, Mr. Dennison.”

“Please, call me Max. This is—”

_Liv_ , Barba thought as their gazes met.

“—Olivia.”

Barba felt like the wind had been knocked out of his chest. She was just as stunned to see him, but she recovered quicker, tearing her eyes from his to look at Dennison. She flashed a smile as he helped her step onto the yacht, and then she turned the smile on Palmer.

“This is a beautiful boat,” she said. She hadn’t moved away from Dennison, and now his arm was around her back, his fingers curled against her waist. She was wearing a floral-print sundress that was split up to her hip, the thin material fluttering in the breeze. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

“The more, the merrier,” Palmer answered, giving her a slow once-over. He smiled. “Please, come aboard, we’ll be leaving momentarily. This is my daughter, Hayley. And her…friend, Rafael.”

Barba had a million questions, and the first—and most pressing—was _what the hell are you doing here?_ But while his brain might only be working at partial capacity due to the shock of seeing her for the first time in over a year, he had still managed to note a few small details: the momentary flash of fear that had followed the initial look of surprise on her face; the tiny shake of her head when she’d seen her name rise to his tongue; the dismissive way she’d turned away from him, as though he were a stranger of no consequence.

“Nice to meet you,” he said politely, holding a hand toward Dennison. “Max, was it? And Olivia?”

Dennison shook his hand. “That’s right. Rafael?”

Barba offered his hand to Benson, and she hesitated only a moment before slipping her palm against his. “Rafael, yes,” he said. Her eyes, such a familiar shade of brown that the color caused him physical pain in his chest, searched his for a few seconds, looking for answers to questions that she couldn’t voice aloud.

“So nice to meet you,” she finally said, pulling her hand from his. She looked at Hayley, but Hayley was clearly uninterested in meeting her father’s friends and associates.

“Rafi, let’s go get a drink,” she said, wrapping both of her arms around one of his. She was wearing nothing but a bikini, and Barba found his arm pressed along the length of her body, his fingers at her inner thigh, and it was all he could do to keep from yanking himself free from her grip.

Instead, he turned toward her. “Maybe we should, uh…sit this one out?” he suggested without much hope. She’d been talking about this yacht, and all the things she wanted to do to him _on_ the yacht, for the better part of two days. “We could go to dinner—”

She frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, I—” He suppressed a sigh. He wanted to cut his losses and leave, pretend none of this had ever happened. But he couldn’t, because it would raise suspicions if he suddenly decided not to go out to sea as planned. And while he had no idea what was happening or why Benson was on the boat, he knew he couldn’t leave without knowing what sort of situation she was in.

Even if she wasn’t happy to see him. Even if she’d love nothing more than for him to hop off the yacht and disappear from her life again.

Even if she and Max Dennison were walking onto the deck with their arms around each other while Dennison nuzzled behind her ear.

Barba forced his attention back to Hayley. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just…” He lowered his voice. “Who are these people?”

She shrugged. “Roger’s Daddy’s business partner and I guess Max is a friend of Roger’s. I don’t know.”

“Business partner? What kind of business?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, clearly annoyed. “What difference does it make?”

“What’s Roger’s last name?”

“Cashew or Peanut or something. No. Chestnut. Why’re you so interested?”

“He’s a judge—your father—I just didn’t realize he had a business on the side.”

“Did you come to have sex with _me_ or my father?”

He blinked. Opened his mouth and closed it. Glanced involuntarily toward Benson, who was being helped into a reclining deck chair by Dennison. As she sat, she pulled a pair of sunglasses from her small handbag. She looked up and met Barba’s eyes for only a moment before slipping the shades onto her face, hiding her eyes. He swallowed.

“I didn’t know that would be a hard question—” Hayley said.

“No—it’s not. You, obviously,” he answered, cursing himself and the feeling of being unable to find his footing. The boat had yet to launch but he was floundering. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, forcing a smile. He looked at Hayley—her sun-bleached hair, her big blue eyes and painted lips, the miles of exposed skin without a tan-line in sight. She was beautiful, and young—far too young for him, but it wasn’t as though he was looking to start a relationship or discuss the Renaissance.

“You weren’t such a prude in the bar,” she reminded him.

_I was drunk off my ass_ , he thought, but saying the words aloud could serve no decent purpose. “Your father wasn’t in the bar,” he said instead, making his tone as light as possible.

She smiled and walked her fingers up his sternum. “You’re cute when you’re shy,” she said.

_Shy_ , he thought. _Dear God_.

When she leaned in, he kissed her red lips and settled his hands onto her hips. Her skin was hot and smooth against his palms, and she pressed her body against his without a hint of _shyness_. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recapture the spark that he’d felt in the beginning.

Whatever suntan lotion she was wearing smelled delicious, and she tasted like peaches. Her breasts were soft against his chest, and she rubbed herself subtly against his crotch. A few hours ago, he’d have gladly followed her below to her cabin, but something had changed.

He pulled away and managed another smile. “Let’s get some drinks,” he suggested. He put his arm behind her back and didn’t comment when she slipped her hand into the back pocket of his shorts while they walked toward the deck. He looked at Benson. Her eyes were hidden behind her lenses, and her chin was pointed toward Dennison, but Barba could feel her gaze.

* * *

Max Dennison was drunk and handsy, and Barba could tell that Benson was uncomfortable in spite of her relaxed posture and curved lips. When Dennison settled a hand onto her upper thigh, she covered it with her own and squeezed. If Barba wasn’t mistaken, she’d just left some nice nail indentations in Dennison’s hand, but he didn’t seem to take the hint.

Dennison’s chair was so close to Benson’s, they might as well be sharing one.

Hayley was standing behind Barba’s chair, massaging his shoulders, but he couldn’t make himself enjoy her touch. Her father was sitting a few yards away, leaned back, appearing completely relaxed. Dark glasses hid his eyes.

Roger Chestnut was texting someone; Barba was impressed that he had cell service so far from shore. They’d been out at sea for nearly two hours, although they were traveling somewhat parallel to the coast.

It was a beautiful evening. The sky was cloudless, and the sun sparkled on the calm sea stretched out around the yacht. The wind made the heat more bearable, but Barba could feel his nose burning under the relentless touch of the sun, and his shirt seemed to be baked to his skin. He’d put on his own sunglasses but was doing his damnedest to keep his eyes from constantly wandering toward Benson.

She’d stripped out of her sundress and was wearing a one-piece swimsuit. Barba had no idea why. He assumed she was trying to kill him.

It had been Dennison’s suggestion. He’d quickly stripped down to shorts, evidently eager to show his abs to the world, so Barba supposed that Benson couldn’t really have refused. She probably couldn’t slap Dennison in the face for his wandering hands, either, but Barba wanted to punch him in the mouth. He hadn’t punched anyone in the mouth for a good thirty years, so maybe he was due.

She was clearly undercover. Barba didn’t know who Max Dennison was, but had assumed he was her partner in whatever undercover operation she had underway. He couldn’t imagine she would be on her own, even if she did have a service weapon in her purse, but Dennison’s behavior was giving him doubts.

“Baby, let’s take this off, you’re burning up,” Hayley said.

Barba turned his head to look up at her. “I don’t—” he started, but she’d already grabbed his t-shirt and was peeling it up his sweaty torso. He felt like his reflexes had been drastically slowed, and before he could figure out how to stop her she’d pulled his shirt up and over his head.

He dropped his arms back to his sides and sat in stunned disbelief for a moment, wearing nothing but a pair of blue swim trunks. He felt a new heat creeping into his cheeks. Hayley had already begun to smear suntan lotion onto his shoulders, working the slippery substance into his overheated skin.

Barba glanced at Benson and Dennison and quickly away. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt quite so old and pale and soft, so _pathetic_ , in his life. He wondered what Benson must think, seeing him like this—chasing after a beautiful young woman who, he realized now, must be using him to satisfy some sort of fetish.

He tried to shove the thought away. Benson undoubtedly had more pressing things on her mind; his presence was nothing more than an annoying inconvenience for her.

“You’re so tense, baby,” Hayley said, leaning down to kiss the side of his neck. He closed his eyes behind his glasses and drew a breath through his nose. Before he knew what was happening, she’d rounded his chair and plopped herself onto his lap. He grunted in surprise, his eyes flying open. He grabbed her instinctively, and she’d already wrapped an arm around his newly-lotioned shoulders. She leaned against him, her naked skin sticking to his, and kissed him.

She stuck her tongue so far into his mouth that he had to remind himself of the tricks he’d used—a lifetime ago, it seemed—to suppress his body’s gag reflex. She ran her hand down the side of his stomach, her fingers inching toward his waistband, and he felt his body beginning to respond. It had been such a long time…

He felt a surge of panic and turned his head, breaking away from her kiss. His heart was slamming in his chest. His stomach was churning, adding to the slight feeling of queasiness he’d been feeling for hours. He’d never had an issue with seasickness, but he wanted to blame the ocean for the turmoil in his stomach.

Dennison was whispering something into Benson’s ear, and she laughed, putting a hand on his arm as he leaned closer.

Barba’s face burned. “I need another drink,” he mumbled.

“If you’re thirsty, I’m already wet, Rafi,” Hayley said. She spoke quietly, but not quietly enough, and Barba almost choked on his own tongue. Chestnut snorted without looking up from his phone, and Dennison offered a loud bark of laughter.

“Jesus Christ, Hayley,” Judge Palmer said, although he didn’t sound nearly as perturbed as he should.

“Just a joke, Daddy,” she answered, but she squirmed on Barba’s lap, smirking at him.

“There’s more ice down below, right?” Barba asked, barely able to keep the desperation from his voice. He realized too late that his choice of words had opened him up for another suggestive joke, but to his relief, Hayley either missed or ignored the opportunity.

Instead, she sighed in annoyance and said, “I’ll get you another scotch.”

“No, that’s—You stay here and relax, I’ll just be a minute,” he said. She slipped from his lap and dropped into the chair beside his. Barba got awkwardly to his feet and briefly considered flinging himself into the ocean. “Anyone need anything?” he asked.

“Bring me a beer, would you?” Chestnut answered.

“Me, too,” Dennison said.

_The last thing you need is more alcohol, asshole_ , Barba thought, but he nodded and turned away. He barely suppressed a wince at the sound of Benson’s voice.

“Do you mind showing me where the bathroom is?” she asked, and Barba could hear her chair creaking as she got to her feet to follow him.

“Kinda hard to miss,” Hayley said.

“Sure,” Barba answered without looking back, and he could feel Benson following him as he made his way below. He looked around as he came to a stop. The loveseat stared back at him accusingly, reminding him of the images he’d had earlier of Hayley kneeling between his legs while he reclined on the small sofa—

It wasn’t fair, really. There was no reason he should be feeling guilty or embarrassed about wanting to have sex with a beautiful woman who found him attractive. If Benson hadn’t shown up, he might already be having sex down here, even with Judge Palmer and his friend sitting up on the deck. And if not, at least he’d be basking in the sun, lounging with a pretty woman at his side, knowing he _would_ be having sex soon.

Hadn’t the universe punished him enough, yet?

“What the hell are you doing here?” Benson hissed behind him.

He forced himself to turn. She’d slipped her glasses up into her hair, so he took his off and held them in his hand. She was standing close—too close, dressed in nothing but a goddamned swimsuit. He could smell her hair. The familiar scent was just another punch to his bruised gut. “I was here first,” he said stupidly, pretending to be angry.

“Do you have any idea—” she started, also pretending to be angry, but she cut off her own harsh whisper and for a few moments he saw the concern slip into her dark and watchful eyes. She searched his face, her own expression softening against her will. He swallowed. “Rafael,” she said. His name was a sigh.

His nose and eyes and throat burned along with his stomach. Most likely because of the salty air. “Whatever you’re here for, I know nothing about it, Liv, I swear.”

“Of course you don’t,” she murmured, frowning. “I can see your tastes are running on the younger side these days, Barba, but not as young as Judge Palmer’s.”

“Jesus Christ.” He closed his eyes, swallowing again. “What’s the plan?”

“Your plan is to stay out of the way.”

He opened his eyes to look at her. “Your partner is—”

“Not your concern,” she cut in. “In about an hour we’re supposed to pull up beside another boat. I need you and Hayley to be down here, out of the way.” She looked away and drew a breath.

“Liv.”

“I mean it,” she said, and her expression had hardened again when she turned her gaze back to his. “Act normal, for God’s sake. Go get the drinks before someone gets suspicious.”

She started past him toward the bathroom, and he reached for her arm reflexively. His fingers brushed her warm skin, but he pulled back; he knew he had no right to touch her. “Be safe, Liv,” he murmured.

“Keep your head down,” she whispered in response.

* * *

The scotch was expensive. Obscenely expensive, in fact. Barba had already had too much, and he knew it. It had helped him relax a bit, but as much as he wanted to get blackout drunk, he couldn’t allow himself to give in to temptation. He had to keep some of his wits about himself.

Hayley was sitting on his lap, but he’d begun to settle into the awkwardness. Her body felt nice against his, and she kept kissing him. It was natural that his body react to hers, and he’d given up trying to fight it. No one was really paying them any attention, anyway.

Dennison was all over Benson, barely half in his own seat as he was draped over her. He kept tucking her hair back to kiss behind her ear, and she’d already pushed him away—subtly—more than once. She’d murmured things into his ear, but her words had only made him chuckle drunkenly.

Barba could see the other yacht. It was anchored, and it was still a good distance away, but they were drawing steadily closer, leaving no doubt that they meant to approach the stationary vessel.

Roger Chestnut was sipping a beer and staring out at the glittering ocean. Frank Palmer appeared to be sleeping. Max Dennison didn’t seem to have much of anything on his mind aside from Benson’s body.

And Hayley wasn’t paying attention to anything except Barba. She was well aware of his state of partial arousal; there was no way she could’ve missed the semi-erection under her hip, so when he bent his head and murmured into her ear: “Let’s go down to your room,” she was happy to oblige.

She slanted her red lips into a smirk and made a show of sliding off his lap. He looked down at the deck, spotted his shirt, and reached for it. She used her bare toes to fling it out of reach and grinned down at him. Barba sighed. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes flicked toward Benson. Behind her glasses, he had a feeling she was looking at him.

_I deserve this_ , he thought with a rush of self-loathing. He got to his feet, resisting the urge to hang his hands in front of himself. It wasn’t that noticeable, not if someone wasn’t specifically looking… “Excuse us,” he muttered, turning to make a quick escape.

Chestnut glanced over at him. No one else showed any reaction as Barba took Hayley’s arm and led her down to the interior of the yacht. He pulled off his sunglasses and slipped them into a pocket. As soon as they were alone, she pulled him into her cabin and closed the door, shoving him against it. She kissed him, and in a matter of seconds she was slipping her hand into the front of his shorts, cupping him inside the mesh lining.

He gasped, his back arching at the contact. He dropped his head back against the door with a thunk, trying to focus. “Hayley, slow down for a minute,” he said.

“We’ve been going slow,” she said. She pushed him hard enough that he made an involuntary _oof_ , and she spun away from him. “Jesus, are you into this or not?” She flung herself dramatically onto the bed and glared at him.

“Yes, sorry, of course,” he lied. He watched helplessly as she stripped her bikini top off without ceremony and threw it onto the floor. He stared at her tanned breasts for too long, and his throat clicked when he swallowed. The mesh lining of his shorts was uncomfortably snug. His whole body was flushed hot with a mixture of desire and embarrassment.

“Come on, _Papi_ ,” she said with a seductive smile, and bile stung the back of his throat.

“Give me two minutes to, uh…get cleaned up,” he said, fumbling behind himself for the doorknob. “You stay here and—and I’ll be right back, okay?”

“I’m gonna start without you,” she warned, leaning onto an elbow and rubbing between her legs with her other hand.

“Yep. Okay,” he said, managing to get the door open. “Two minutes,” he repeated. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. He released a shaky breath. “Fuck,” he whispered.

A noise startled him, and he turned to see Max Dennison stumbling out of the bathroom, still stuffing himself back into his shorts. “Hey,” Dennison said when he spotted Barba. “Thought you’d be getting laid by now.” He grinned crookedly.

“Just…waiting for the bathroom,” Barba said. He watched in disbelief as Dennison walked unsteadily toward the loveseat and dropped back onto the cushions. “What are you doing?”

Dennison leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Room’s spinning, man.”

“No, I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Barba answered. He glanced toward the stairs leading to the deck. “Don’t you think you should get back—”

“I need a minute.” Dennison swiped a hand over his face. “I fucking hate boats.”

“Right, but you don’t want to leave Olivia up there alone—”

“She’ll be fine. Can I tell you a secret, Rafael?” Dennison peered up at him.

“No,” Barba said. “I’m going in the bathroom and—” He stopped, because Dennison had once more closed his eyes. The man clearly had no intention of moving off the sofa in any hurry. Barba looked at his watch. They couldn’t be more than a few minutes from the other yacht, and a little more than an hour from sunset. Barba’s stomach churned uneasily.

He looked at the stairs again. His instructions—his _only_ instructions—had been to stay out of the way. To keep Hayley, and himself, down in the belly of the boat and out of harm’s way. He had no idea what the plan entailed, what the operation was even meant to accomplish, and if he did anything he ran the risk of screwing everything up.

But he knew in his gut that Dennison was not following the plan. He wasn’t pretending to be drunk and half-asleep.

Before he could stop himself, Barba was cautiously climbing the stairs. He formed half a plan in his mind as he went: he would claim he was only after his shirt and sandals, and while fetching them he would make sure that Benson seemed like she had things under control. If she needed his help, surely she knew she could signal him in some way—

“You’re making a big mistake.” Her voice reached Barba’s ears, carried by the breeze, and he froze at the top of the steps.

“Actually, sweetheart, you’re the one who made the mistake,” Judge Palmer’s voice answered. His words sent ice water rushing through Barba’s veins, and his stomach tightened into a knot of fear when Benson answered.

“Chestnut, you son of a bitch.”

Barba looked down into the boat, considering whether or not to go to Dennison. _Play dumb_ , he thought desperately. _Say you’re looking for your shirt. Distract them so she can do something_. He stepped out into the late-day sunshine. He opened his mouth, prepared to offer some stupid jumble of words, but those words died in his throat.

Benson and Palmer were scuffling, and he had one of her wrists in a death grip. Chestnut was behind her and hefting a champagne bottle. Barba tried to call her name, but it was already too late; Chestnut brought the bottle down on Benson’s head with a dull and sickening crack. The full bottle didn’t shatter, but Benson’s head rocked beneath the blow, and her body went limp.

Palmer grabbed her around the waist as she collapsed toward him. Barba started forward, thinking, _no, no, Jesus, Liv_ —and then both men were hauling her up and Barba was too far away to keep them from tossing her over the edge of the boat. He heard the splash as she hit the water, and he could feel nothing but fear, think of nothing but her.

His bare feet slapped the deck as he rushed to the short railing. He didn’t care about Palmer or Chestnut, or even Dennison and Hayley, and he didn’t care about himself. He spotted her body in the water behind the boat. She was facedown, most of her body angled down into the dark depths of the ocean, and Barba had never felt more fear in his life.

“You’ve got two choices, Mr. Barba,” Judge Palmer said calmly.

“Max!” Barba shouted desperately. He looked toward the distant shore, thinking _there’s no way we’ll make it, there’s no way I’ll make it_.

“Rafael,” Palmer said. “Go back to my daughter and we can—”

Barba stepped up, heard someone—either Palmer or Chestnut—swear, and then he was diving into the ocean. The cold swallowed him, pressing in on him, and he tried frantically to control his panic as he clawed his way back to the surface. _Please be okay, please be okay_ , he thought. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to get her to a shore that might as well be a thousand miles away, but he had to get to her.

He broke out of the water’s icy grip and sucked in a breath. He spotted her, bobbing on the wake from the yacht, and swam toward her. He tried not to think about what might be beneath his kicking feet, watching him from the deep, deciding whether or not he and Benson were prey.

“Liv,” he gasped frantically as he got closer. There was blood drifting out of her hair, but he shoved away thoughts of sharks and grabbed for her shoulder. He slipped under water as he turned her over, and his panic nearly consumed him. His galloping heart was likely echoing through the ocean, signaling predators like a beacon.

He got his arm around her shoulders, pulling her back against himself, and her head lolled against his shoulder. He managed to keep their heads above water—barely—by frantically kicking his feet, but he knew he would exhaust himself in a matter of minutes if he didn’t get his panic under control.

He struggled to compartmentalize. He needed to deal with the crises one at a time. She wasn’t breathing, and that was the most pressing issue. “Liv,” he said, slapping wetly at her cheek. “Olivia, wake up.” He opened her mouth and squeezed her nose closed, covered her lips with his, and breathed into her. They both slipped beneath the water, but he kicked them to the surface, snorted the stinging saltwater from his nose, and tried again.

She spluttered and coughed, and he struggled to keep her head above water while he slipped under. She twisted, grabbing at him as she gained consciousness and, with it, fear and confusion. She clawed at him and he flailed, trying desperately to kick his way out of the suffocating coldness.

He managed to get his face out of the water, and gasped her name.

“Raf—Rafael?”

He coughed out a mouthful of disgusting water. “Stop struggling—stop fighting—”

“What—”

“I’ve got you, you’re fine, relax,” he panted. The words felt like a lie but they seemed to reassure her, and she stopped trying to drown him. “Float, Liv,” he said. “Float, we—need to regroup.”

“We’re going to drown.”

“No, no we’re—”

“I’ll never see my son again.”

“Liv, you will, I promise you will,” he said. She’d begun to tread water for herself, although her movements seemed sluggish, so he finally chanced a look back at the yacht. It was a long way from them already, and still moving. There was no sign of life on the deck—he couldn’t see Palmer, or Chestnut, or anyone, and the boat was not circling back. The second yacht was barely visible in the distance. 

In the other direction, he could barely see the shore over the rolling waves. The sun was setting behind the trees, and in no time it was going to be dark. They were going to be out in the ocean, in the dark—

He closed his mind to the fear; it would serve no purpose but to make him panic, and panicking was the very worst thing he could do now.

“Roger betrayed us,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he answered, floating onto his back in an attempt to catch his breath and get his bearings. “We can’t do anything for anyone on the boats right now.”

“Rafa,” she said.

“I know. Jesus, Liv, I know, but—but we’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna take a couple of minutes to catch our breath and then we’re going to swim toward the shore.”

“I can’t swim that far.”

“We can and we will. And you, you can do anything, I know that for a fact. We’ll swim to the shore, we’ll call whoever you need to call for backup, and you’ll go home to hug Noah.”

“There’s FBI on the other yacht. They’ll come looking—”

“They won’t find us here, bobbing around like flotsam—”

“You should’ve stayed on the boat.”

“And done what?”

“Get Max—”

“Max is drunk on the loveseat downstairs.”

“—or call for help at least.”

“You’d be dead.”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, we need to swim.” He rolled onto his stomach and started pulling himself through the water, and she followed his example. She was still moving slowly, and he set his pace to match hers. He tried not to look at the distant trees, or the rapidly darkening sky. “Who the hell is Max Dennison, anyway?” he asked after a minute.

“Feds,” she breathed. “They came in to take the case over—”

“But you refused to back off?” he guessed.

“I’d already built a relationship with Roger Chestnut. He was our way in.” She didn’t repeat the obvious: Chestnut had betrayed her and the operation.

“He’s an asshole,” Barba said after a while.

“Roger?”

“Max.”

“I think they drugged his first drink. He shouldn’t have been that drunk otherwise.”

“Hmm. Okay,” he said.

She let that hang for a full minute while they cut their way through the water. Finally, she asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“I get it, you defending him.”

“Do you.”

“Hey, it’s none of my business, it’s just a bad look. Professionally, you know.”

“You think he and I are—what, involved?”

“Involved?” He offered a humorless chuff of laughter. “I thought you were going to start fucking on the deck in front of all of us.”

His words were met with stunned silence from Benson. The only sounds were their bodies moving through the water. “That’s funny, coming from you,” she finally said. He could hear the pain beneath the anger, and he hated himself. He always seemed to hurt her.

“I wasn’t working,” he mumbled.

“No, but she was working you,” she shot back.

“Working—you mean playing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You can read my mind?”

“Yes, I can read you. You think because she’s a little younger—”

“She’s half your age.”

“—and beautiful, that someone like that couldn’t be interested in me.”

“Her eyes are too close together.”

“Wow. I never thought I’d hear _you_ —”

“You said she was beautiful, I was just pointing out—”

“She’s very flexible,” he said, and she fell silent again. He could feel her seething beside him as they swam. “And young,” he added for good measure.

“Right. I’m sure you two have lots in common.”

“I wasn’t trying to marry her, I was trying to fuck her.”

“Huh. Classy.”

“Actually,” he said, his temper flaring, “I would’ve been happy to let her suck my dick, which she’s been offering to do for two days and which she would be doing right now if you hadn’t brought the world’s worst FBI douche bag into our plans.”

She didn’t answer for a minute. “You and Peter Stone are more alike than I ever realized.”

He drew up short and started treading water. “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

She rolled over onto her back, kicking at the water, and glared at him. “Use your imagination.”

“Interesting that we talk about sex and your first thought is Stone.”

She flipped over again and started swimming, and he propelled himself forward to catch up to her.

“If he talks to you about getting his dick sucked, you should fire him.”

“Since when do I have the power to fire an ADA?”

“Oh, so you _knew_ you weren’t my boss?”

She shot him a death-glare. “Funny. Besides, he already quit.”

“He _quit_?”

“It’s alright, I’m used to people leaving. As you know.”

He didn’t answer. His chest ached, and it wasn’t from the exertion.

“I’m just worried about Noah. They’d been getting pretty close. Playing baseball…”

“Just because he quit doesn’t mean you can’t be friends, or he can’t still…” His mumble trailed off into nothingness.

“Never seems to work out that way,” she answered quietly. After a few moments, she said, “I’m sorry, comparing you to Stone was unfair. He gave me this big speech about how I’d ruined him and his ability to do his job and, I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about you lately.” She paused, glancing over at him. “Not that I wasn’t always,” she muttered.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He looked back; he couldn’t see the yacht over the swells.

“You changed your number,” she said, and the accusation in her voice couldn’t mask the hurt.

“I was getting calls after the trial. My mother had to change her number, too. She almost had to move.”

“I’m sorry—we could’ve helped if you’d asked.”

“It’s not like I was hiding. You could’ve found me.”

“You walked out of my life and expected me to chase after you?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re an idiot,” she repeated after a while.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “But I never said you ruined me.”

“No? Well you walking away didn’t really feel like a compliment, Barba.”

“We should save our breath. Let’s just worry about getting to shore.”

“You think we’ll make it to shore?” she asked after a few beats.

“Yes, we’ll make it.”

“I’m sorry I insulted Hayley. I’m sure she’s nice.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

“Yet.”

He snorted. “I don’t think we have much future now.”

“For what it’s worth, she did seem to like you.”

“I’m not without self-awareness, you know.”

“You’ve never seen yourself as clearly as you like to think.”

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t.

“Is your phone in your pocket?”

“My—oh. Yeah. I wouldn’t expect it to work.”

“No LifeProof case?”

“No. But look on the bright side.”

“Which is?”

“At least we’re dressed for swimming.”

She laughed breathlessly. “I never knew you owned a t-shirt, let alone swim trunks.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Yeah?”

“Not really, no.”

She smiled at him, but it was a tired, strained smile. “It’s getting dark.”

“Whatever happens, we’re in this together,” he said.

“Rafael…”

“Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“Anything you only want to say because you’re afraid we’re not going to see the sun rise.”

“Alright. But when we make it out of this, you owe me a conversation.”

His arms and legs were already achy, and she likely had a concussion. They needed to stop talking and conserve their energy, so he simply answered: “Sure.”

* * *

Benson forced her swollen eyes open, squinting up at the lightening sky. She was lying on her back on a strand of dark, wet sand. The sun was barely peeking over the ocean beyond her toes. Her head was thudding, and her throat and stomach burned. Her muscles felt weak, rubbery; her whole body was sore. She was shivering, her skin cold.

She turned her head and saw Barba, facedown in the sand with his head turned slightly to the side. He was naked, his skin pale in the early morning light. His legs were still in the water, the waves lapping up his thighs.

“Rafael,” she croaked, wincing. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and crawled across the sand toward him. She could see that he was breathing, and she felt a rush of relief at the sight. “Rafa,” she said.

He stirred, making a sound in his throat, and lifted his head. “Liv?” he said, and his voice was as hoarse as hers. “Are we alive?”

She stopped and sat back onto her legs, not wanting to get too close to him before he’d realized that he’d lost his shorts in the sea. “I think so.” She peered up at the sky. There’d been helicopters circling for a while, searchlights scanning the dark ocean, but the lights had never passed over her and Barba.

He started to lever himself up onto his hands and froze. “Something’s wrong,” he said flatly.

“You think?” she asked, hugging herself. She was freezing. “Come on, we have to move—”

“No, I mean…something’s wrong…” He rolled cautiously onto his side with his back to her, looking down at himself.

“You lost your shorts,” she said unnecessarily.

“What the— _ow_ , fuck, Jesus.” He flopped over onto his backside, and she quickly averted her eyes. “Help,” he said, and that got her attention in an instant. “Jesus, Liv, help, _ow Christ help_ —”

She was already scrambling toward him without knowing what was wrong. “Barba, what the hell?” She didn’t want to look, but he was pawing desperately at his crotch as he sat in the waves, and he was right—something was definitely wrong. Her brain couldn’t immediately make sense of what she was seeing in the pale light. Everything looked swollen, misshapen, discolored. “What happened?”

“Get it _off, Liv please get it off_.”

Finally, as she reached him, her brain caught up to her eyes. It wasn’t _him_ that she was seeing; there was a translucent jellyfish wrapped around his crotch and inner thighs. “Oh my God—Okay, Barba, you’re okay,” she said, but he sounded anything but okay as he made strangled sounds of pain and tried in vain to dislodge the slick creature from his genitals.

“ _Ohh-liviaaa_ ,” he begged.

“Okay, I—I don’t know how—” The pain and desperation in his voice left no room for hesitation, though. She might get stung, but it would be nothing compared to what he was experiencing. She grabbed the jellyfish with both hands. It was cold and slippery, and she dug in with her fingers and pulled.

Barba choked back a scream as she tore the creature from his crotch and flung it into the water. The cold water, and the pain of the jellyfish stings, had made everything contract, and she saw little more than pale skin streaked with red welts, and a patch of dark curls, before he rolled away from her and retched. He coughed and gagged, and she put a hand against his chilled back.

“Rafael,” she said. “Talk to me, are you—”

“It burns, Christ it burns so much.”

“Come on, get out of the water,” she said, kneeling beside him.

He pushed at the wet sand with his feet for a moment before doubling over and gagging again. His breaths were ragged, but he didn’t sound like he was going into shock. She needed that to remain true.

“Come on,” she repeated with more authority in her hoarse voice. “Push. Get out of the water.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” she snapped. “We didn’t survive a whole night in the ocean so you could curl up on the beach and give up because of a little sting.” He made a strangled sound. “Crawl,” she ordered, and he rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled up the beach, grunting and whimpering with every shift of his knees.

“I’m gonna pass out.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “We need to get up and moving before we freeze to death.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to walk down the beach until we find someplace to call for help.”

He stopped and hung his head, panting. She kept her eyes on his hair, refusing to look at his pale ass stuck up in the chilly air. “I can’t walk down the beach,” he said with a mixture of indignation and pain.

“I know it hurts, Rafael, but we have to—”

He turned his head to look at her. “I’m _naked_ ,” he said, as though she hadn’t realized.

“That’s the least of our concerns right now.”

“Least of _yours_ , maybe,” he shot back. His gaze slipped down her torso.

She spread her arms. “You want me to give you my swimsuit? It’s not like I have a robe lying around.”

He groaned and closed his eyes. “It hurts so bad,” he said. “I don’t know what to do, Liv, what do I do? Are you supposed to piss on me?”

“That’s a myth, Barba,” she said, struggling to her feet. She swayed, praying her rubbery legs would support her. She felt like the ground was rolling and surging beneath her feet, and she swallowed the sting of bile. She looked up and down the beach and at first could see nothing but trees. Then she spotted a patch of red in the rising sun: a roof.

A house.

She bent and put a hand on his cold shoulder, barely managing not to pitch face-first into the sand beside him. “I see a house,” she said. “I’ll walk down there and use the phone—”

“You’re leaving me?” he asked with raw panic in his voice.

“Yes, Barba. I’m going to go call a cab and head home.”

“Wait, I can walk, I can walk.”

“I know you _can_.”

He drew a deep, bracing breath. “I didn’t even get to have sex before my dick got eaten off,” he said, and she turned her face away, biting her lip— _hard_ —to keep from laughing. He pushed himself up with an involuntary sound of pain and got unsteadily to his feet.

“It wasn’t eaten off, you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not. They’ll have to amputate.”

She snorted. “They’re not going to amputate your penis, Barba.”

“Did you go to medical school since I left?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid to look.”

“ _I’m_ not going to look.”

“I don’t _want_ you to look, Jesus.” He swayed and she grabbed his arm. His face was alarmingly pale except for a few patches of sunburn on his nose and cheeks. His lips were chapped; so were hers. His eyes were wide and glassy and all but swallowed by his pupils. “Okay,” he said, clearly trying to convince himself.

“You can do this,” she assured him, still holding his arm. “I know it hurts, but we need to walk.”

“Okay,” he repeated. He drew a ragged breath.

“You can compartmentalize like no one else, Barba.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No one can beat your focus.”

“Right.”

“See that bit of roof? We’re walking there.”

“Okay.”

“One foot in front of the other.”

“Part of it’s still on me.”

“Focus.”

“Burning.”

“Barba.”

“Okay.” He closed his eyes and took a step.

“Good. We want to get there before sunset, though, so—”

“Your bedside manner is top-notch, Liv, really.”

“I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

“I guess I deserve this,” he said as he forced himself to keep moving his feet forward.

“No, you don’t,” she sighed. “Come on. I’ll buy you a huge breakfast when we get out of this.”

“It hurts too much to think about food,” he said, shuffling along. Then, after a few seconds of silence, “I want strawberries on my waffles, and lots and lots of whipped cream.”

“Deal.”

“And coffee.”

“Of course.”

“And bacon.”

Her stomach grumbled in response. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I’m slowing you down, you’re right, it makes more sense for you to leave me here and—”

“We’re in this together, like you said.”

He fell silent, and after a few more steps he’d managed to increase his pace. She could tell by his breathing that he was in pain, but he was no longer making any other sounds. His jaw was clenched, his eyes focused ahead in determination.

“Thank you for jumping in after me,” she said after a minute.

“It was stupid,” he answered. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, you had a choice.”

He shook his head without looking at her. “Not really, no.”

“I’m sure Hayley’s worried sick about you.”

He smiled and glanced at her. “I don’t need my ego stroked, thank you.”

“I mean it. It might take a while before you…heal up enough to try again, but—”

“I think I’ll join a monastery,” he said. “Now that I’m a eunuch.”

She laughed. “I missed this, Barba.”

He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. “Liv, I’m positive we’ve never done any of _this_ before.”

She bumped her arm against his. “You know what I mean.”

He searched her face for a few seconds as they walked. “I’m sorry for whatever Stone said to you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He dropped his gaze to the sand and frowned as they walked. She knew what he was thinking: that _all_ of it was his fault.

“And for the record, I didn’t sleep with him.”

“I didn’t suppose you had,” he muttered.

“Or Max.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Maybe not, but it could’ve been.”

He didn’t answer. His lips looked purple in the light of the sunrise, and she could see him shivering. She was shivering, too, but she was more worried about him going into shock. She glanced down the front of his body. The welts on his thighs were red and angry-looking, and she saw a few streaks across his—

“You’re looking at my dick,” he said without looking at her.

“Sorry.”

“I’d like to file charges against that jellyfish,” he said, and she laughed in spite of herself. He looked down at himself and grimaced.

“The redness and swelling are temporary.”

“But the pain and humiliation are forever.”

“The pain is temporary, too, and you shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“Shouldn’t I?” he asked with a tight laugh.

“No. We can pretend this never happened.”

“Right. How’s your head? Any chance of amnesia?”

“What did that asshole hit me with, anyway?”

“Champagne bottle. Luckily it didn’t break.”

She shot him a dirty look. “Luckily.”

He grinned, but it shifted into another grimace.

“You’re doing really well, Barba,” she said. “We’re almost there.” When he opened his mouth, she cut in: “Please don’t say the word ‘dick’ again. I know it hurts, but if you say the word one more time I’m going to shove you back into the ocean.”

He laughed, a real and genuine laugh in spite of the pain. “You said _penis_ ,” he reminded her. “That’s so much _worse_.”

“It’s not, it’s a medical term.”

“Then what the fuck is dihh—the other word?”

“Sexual.”

“ _Sexual_? Olivia, I can promise you the very last thing in the world I feel right now is _sexual_.”

“You know what I mean.”

“There are worse words I could use.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He chuffed softly. They walked in silence toward the looming house; there was no sign of life around the house or through the windows, but it was still early. “I’m sorry, but ‘dick’ is not remotely romantic,” he finally said.

“I didn’t say ‘romantic,’ I said ‘sexual.’”

“I’ve never once felt the desire to talk about my genitalia during sex.”

“I’m happy for you?”

“And even if your partner’s into dirty talk, honestly, ‘dick’ is not—”

“Barba.”

“Liv, it’s utili _tarian_ ,” he said.

“Not at the moment,” she shot back.

He stared at her. “Are you saying my poor, injured penis is useless?”

“Doesn’t seem to be doing much more than flapping in the breeze.”

He answered with a startled bark of laughter. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not. It’s the sunrise.”

“You are. I’m the one buck-ass naked with my crotch on fire, but you’re—”

“Do you want me to talk about my vagina?”

He blinked several times and turned his face away. “No.”

“Pussy?”

“Jesus, _fuck_ no,” he said, swallowing.

“Well, there you go.”

He tried to keep his thoughts to himself, but after a few more steps they bubbled out of him: “None of these are sexual words.”

She sighed in exasperation. “Just because you don’t use—”

“You’re having sex with the wrong people.” He felt the words leaving his tongue and he knew they were a mistake but he was incapable of biting them back. The fiery pain between his legs had robbed him of half of his ability to reason and two-thirds of his motor skills.

She let him stew in miserable silence and dread for a couple of yards. “There was a time and place you could’ve voiced those concerns.”

“I think I did,” he shot back.

“No, what you did was crawl off like a wounded puppy.”

His mouth opened and closed. His brain was unable to form a response.

“I guess I should’ve found someone who wanted me to sit on his lap and tell him I was _wet_ —in front of strangers—”

“Do you think I _wanted_ her to do that?”

“You seemed pretty into it, actually.”

“She was sitting in my _lap_.”

“Yeah. You chose to be there.”

“I wanted to have a little mindless, casual sex with a beautiful woman. Throw me in Rikers, I guess.”

“No, I’m sorry I spoiled your plans.”

“Right, when the one person I’m trying to forget—” He broke off, snapping his mouth shut.

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble forgetting about me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you should enlighten me.”

“I won’t be the one to tell you something you never wanted to hear,” he said, stalking toward the house.

“What the hell—Barba, you’re _naked_.”

“I need some fucking ice and something to numb me from the waist down,” he said without looking back. He stomped up the steps with his jaw clenched against the pain, and she hurried after him. He pounded a fist on the door, but there were no immediate sounds from within.

“They probably don’t use this door except to go down to the beach,” Benson said, peering into a window.

“I’m not traipsing around looking for a back door. Feel free.” He raised his fist and pounded again.

“Everything’s dark and quiet.”

“It’s early.”

“I don’t think anyone’s here.”

Barba looked past her toward the next house, a good distance further down the beach. “I’ll never make it,” he said.

She opened her mouth to gripe at him about his whiny, can’t-do attitude, but the words died on her tongue when she got a good look at his face. “Okay,” she said, briefly running a hand up and down his cold arm. “Okay, Rafa, just—wait right here.” She hurried back down the steps and toward the trees, snatching up a palm-sized rock.

“How do you have so much energy?” he muttered as he watched her make her way back up the stairs.

“What, a nice, leisurely, eight-hour swim in the middle of the freezing ocean isn’t _refreshing_ to you?”

He offered a small smile. “There’s probably an alarm,” he warned as she raised the rock.

“Good, the cops’ll be here faster,” she answered. She smashed the glass in the door and used the rock to clear away enough shards so she could reach inside. She tossed the rock over the railing and snaked her arm inside. It occurred to her too late that there could be a deadbolt or chain somewhere out of reach, but for the first time, luck seemed to be on their side. She unlocked the door and turned the handle, and the door opened. She felt a rush of relief even as she braced herself for the screech of an alarm.

The house was silent, though. “Come on,” she said, leading the way into the house. “Careful, watch the glass. Hello?” she yelled with her hands cupped around her mouth. “NYPD, is anyone home?”

Barba had already spotted a liquor cabinet, and he made a beeline for it. It was unlocked; another stroke of luck.

“They probably have Tylenol or—” She stopped, because he was already guzzling scotch from a bottle. She turned away, rubbing her hands over her prickly arms, and started searching for a phone. She found one in the kitchen, but there was no dial tone.

“There’s still pieces of it on me,” he said, making his way further into the house with the liquor clutched tightly in one hand. He disappeared into a bathroom, and a rectangle of light drifted out of the doorway.

“The phones don’t work,” she said. She heard him rummaging around in the cupboards and drawers. “What are you doing?”

“I need to…” He trailed off, and she debated for a moment.

“I’m going to go upstairs and make sure no one’s home.”

He didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs, calling out as she went. She quickly checked each room; she and Barba were alone in the house. She was halfway down the stairs again when she heard a crash from the bathroom, followed by a string of curses. She quickened her pace and reached the doorway in a few seconds.

She drew up short at the sight of Barba, sitting naked on the edge of the bathtub. He had his left hand against the wall. His right hand was resting on his thigh, trembling fingers clutching desperately at a pair of tweezers. From the sound of his breathing, he was close to hyperventilating.

“I brought you a robe,” she said, holding it up. He rolled his eyes toward her, silently begging for her help. She threw the bathrobe onto the counter and crossed over to him. “What should I do?” she asked.

“Get them off,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Please, Liv. I can’t do it.”

“I…I’ll have to touch you…”

“If you’re looking for consent, you have my permission to do whatever you want. Please just make this stop.”

She could hear the strain in his voice, and she wanted nothing more than to take away his pain. She tamped down her embarrassment and discomfort and looked at his crotch— _really_ looked—for the first time. She could see the small tentacles still attached to his skin: one on the curve of his inner thigh, two wrapped partway around his shaft, and one latched onto a swollen testicle.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. She sank into a crouch, wincing at the pop in her knees and the strain on her sore muscles. She pulled the tweezers from his fingers and looked up to meet his eyes. “But you’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah—you’re a doctor,” he said in a small attempt at a joke. She put a hand on his thigh, careful not to touch any of the red welts, and leaned closer. “Yesterday I thought I would end the day in a position similar to this,” he said, “but this isn’t what I had in mind.”

“Sorry.”

“The situation is way worse, but the view is better.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re trying to flatter me because you want me to be gentle.”

“No.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Do it.”

She plucked at the tentacle on his thigh and started peeling it off, and he choked back a cry. “Okay, almost done,” she assured him, even though this was the least worrisome of the four. She reached back and flicked the piece of jellyfish into the toilet. “Please forgive me for this,” she muttered under her breath, unsure if she was talking to Barba or God or the universe in general, as she pinched the tweezers onto the tentacle closest to his flared head. She took a breath and ripped it off with a quick jerk of her wrist.

Barba cursed and bent forward, leaning onto her shoulder and almost knocking her face-first into his crotch. He was panting, and she was afraid he was going to pass out. “I’m gonna be sick,” he gasped.

“Please don’t puke on me,” she said. “Do you need—”

“No—No, do it, I’m okay, do it, pull ‘em off.”

He was bleeding a little, but she didn’t think she should tell him until she was finished. She put a hand on his chest to help him straighten, and positioned the tweezers on the next tentacle. She peeled it off as quickly as possible. His breaths were shaky, but he didn’t cry out.

“This one might be the worst,” she warned, glancing up at his face. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be concentrating on controlling his breaths. “And I have to…put my hand…”

“I trust you, Olivia,” he said without looking at her.

She swallowed and put her left hand over his penis, shifting him carefully to the side so she could see what she was doing. She pinched the end of the last piece of tentacle with the tweezers. His testicle was swollen, inflamed and painful-looking, and she couldn’t imagine how it must feel. She felt a rush of guilt for all the grief she’d given him while he was in so much pain.

“Deep breath,” she said. While he was pulling in a breath, she pulled the tentacle from his testicle in one quick motion.

He swore violently in Spanish and would’ve collapsed forward if she hadn’t caught him with a shoulder against his chest.

“Vinegar,” she suddenly said. He mumbled something incoherent near her ear. She pushed him up. “Vinegar helps with the sting. Stay here and I’ll go look. Don’t pass out.”

“I don’t want to be conscious.”

She grabbed up the bottle of scotch from the floor and thrust it into his shaking hand. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room and toward the kitchen, praying for another bit of luck. She found a gallon jug of white vinegar in the pantry and hurried back to the bathroom.

Barba was sitting hunched over with his head in a hand and the scotch hung loosely by his leg. For a moment she was afraid he’d blacked out after all, even though he hadn’t dropped the bottle. “I’m bleeding,” he muttered without looking up. “You think I should pour vinegar onto open wounds?”

“Can it really burn any worse?”

“Fair point,” he answered, forcing his head up. His eyes were bloodshot as he peered at her.

“It’s supposed to neutralize the stingers,” she said as she unscrewed the cap. “At least…if I remember correctly…”

He set the scotch on the rug and reached for the vinegar. His hand was shaking so badly that he almost dropped the heavy jug, but before she could ask if he wanted her to do it, he was pouring vinegar over his injured crotch without impunity.

“We might be buying these people a new rug,” she remarked.

“Fuck them,” he answered. He seemed to have abandoned any shred of modesty he had left, and he grabbed himself with his left hand so he could splash vinegar onto his balls. “They weren’t here to help us in our time of need.”

She laughed quietly. “Is that helping?”

“Yes. Thank you baby Jesus.”

She laughed again. “Good. Are you going to be okay alone for a few minutes?”

He glanced up at her, then back at his crotch. “Where are you going?”

“To the next house to use a phone. We have to let someone know what happened and where we are. I have to find out if Max is alright.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Yeah, go, I’ll wait here.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“You should wear the robe. Are there stingers in my skin? I mean, that’s how it works, right? It leaves stingers? They could, like…work their way up into my blood or something?”

“No more scotch,” she said, snatching up the bottle from the floor and putting it by the sink. She grabbed the robe and slipped it on, since he wouldn’t be venturing outside before she returned. “You’ll be fine. I’ll make a call and come right back.”

“Okay.”

“If someone comes home—”

“I’ll tell them I’m friends with a police lieutenant and I’m sure they’ll believe me and not shoot me,” he mumbled, barely paying any attention to her as he examined the welts on his skin.

“I’ll be right back,” she repeated.

She hated leaving him, but he was in no condition to walk anywhere at the moment, and she would be quicker on her own, anyway. She left through the door they’d entered, being careful to avoid the broken glass with her bare feet, and hurried down the steps. She was surprised her legs hadn’t gone completely on strike, yet. She wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot bath for a few hours and then crawl into a warm, soft bed, but she feared she wouldn’t be able to walk for days.

* * *

“Apparently we’re in some Twilight Zone where no one spends the summer in their expensive beach houses, and _that_ house doesn’t even _have_ a landline anywhere. But there’s a car in the garage here and I found the keys by the door, so the new plan—” She drew up short in the bathroom doorway. “What the _hell happened_?”

“I think baking soda takes out stingers,” Barba mumbled. He was staring at his foaming crotch. His dark pubic hair was full of white bubbles. “That might just be bees,” he mused.

“You mixed baking soda and vinegar on your _dick_?” she asked in horror, reaching behind him to crank on the shower.

“You’re not supposed to say that word. Someone told me. I don’t understand what’s happening right now.”

“Baking soda and vinegar is how junior high kids make fake volcanoes.”

He looked at her as she grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “How’m I s’posed to know that?”

“How could you _not_ know that?”

He squinted. “I had a jellyfish on my dick, Olivia.”

“And? Did it suck out your brain?”

He chortled as she spun him around. “No.”

“Step in.”

He obeyed, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself. “Are we showering together?” he asked. She pushed him into the spray of hot water. “Ow, it’s too hot.”

“No, it’s not, you’re just cold. Give it a minute.”

“I found some cheese in the refrigerator, Liv, I saved half for you.”

“Thanks. Listen, get cleaned up, we need to get out of here.”

“Maybe a little less than half.”

“We’re going to take the car and drive to the nearest store or sign of life.”

“But I tried. I really did.”

“Tried what?”

“To save you half.”

“Oh. That’s okay, thank you. We’ll get some real food when we’re out of this mess.”

“You’re still gonna buy me breakfast?”

“Of course, a deal’s a deal,” she said.

“No one was home at the other house?”

“No. I broke in. I’ll charge the damages to the US government because I haven’t heard any helicopters out looking for us this morning—”

“You broke into _two houses_?”

“Yes, and I expect you to stand by me through my trial like I did—” She stopped. He was standing in the spray of hot water with the steam swirling up around him. The science fair foam had been washed away from his swollen crotch, and the combination of scotch and vinegar seemed to have considerably helped his pain.

He lowered his head forward into the water, closing his eyes.

“Sorry, bad joke,” she muttered.

He didn’t look at her. “I, uh. I never did thank you for that,” he said, the words barely audible as the water sluiced over his head.

“Well, now you’ve saved my life, so we’ll call it even.”

“We’ll never be even,” he murmured into the water.

“Rafael…”

“I wanted to call you, Liv. You think I didn’t? I talked to you every day for years.”

“I don’t know about every day,” she answered with a small, sad smile.

“And then…nothing. I know it was my fault, I know that, but I just didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“You were wrong.”

“Yeah. I look at our old texts sometimes so I can pretend you’re still talking to me. I probably shouldn’t tell you that but it’s not like I could look any more pathetic right now.”

“Rafael, I know you’re feeling pretty rough—”

“I’d rather be drowning in the ocean with you than lounging on a yacht with Hayley. Or anyone.”

“That’s…the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He snorted and turned his face out of the water to regard her blearily. Water dripped from the stubble on his chin, from his eyebrows, from his nose. His cheeks had color beneath the sunburn, now, and his lips were no longer purple. He looked warm, at least.

Before she could remind herself of all the reasons it was a bad idea, she slipped off the robe and stepped into the bathtub behind him. He looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t get excited, I’m not taking off the suit,” she said, and he grinned at her. “Even though I’ve probably got seaweed and God knows what else plastered in all my…crevices.”

“ _Crevices_ ,” he repeated, drawing the word out. “ _There’s_ a word that might have potential.”

“Not coupled with any of the ones from earlier.”

“You mean like—”

She reached past his shoulder and pressed two fingers to his lips, silencing him. “I told you I’d throw you back in the ocean. Now, I cut you some slack because you were in pain, but—”

He turned toward her and she caught her breath. “You wanted to have a conversation, Liv,” he said. “I know now isn’t the time, but if we could—”

They both whirled, startled, as the bathroom door burst open. Benson shoved Barba against the wall and stepped in front of him, as if she’d be any real protection while standing in a shower in a swimsuit.

“Federal— _Olivia_?”

“Max,” she said as her brain tried frantically to catch up to what was happening. “What the hell—How did you—”

“We yelled but no one answered. What are you _doing_?”

“Barba got stung by a jellyfish. How did you get here? What happened?”

Dennison turned and motioned to the people behind him, telling them to back off. “Can we discuss this when you’re both wearing some clothes?”

Benson bent and shut off the shower. She stepped out of the tub and snatched up the bathrobe, handing it to Barba. He put it on without drying off, struggling to pull it over his wet skin, but then he held it loosely closed with a hand instead of cinching it to rub against his welts.

“There,” she told Dennison, “we’re dressed. How the hell did you find us?”

“We were already looking on the off-chance you made it to shore—”

“Off-chance?” she repeated.

“—and the Coast Guard is searching, but you set off two silent alarms. We checked the house next door—Why are you in the shower?”

“I told you, Barba got stung by a jellyfish.”

“But what—”

“What happened with Palmer and Chestnut?” she asked as she took Barba’s arm to help him step out of the tub.

“Oh. They’re in custody…”

“ _How_? Why didn’t they kill you?”

Dennison scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I think they drugged my drink, I was a little loopy. But when they came down, they found me and Palmer’s daughter in a…compromising position, which caught them by surprise and gave me a minute—”

Barba stepped up beside Benson and punched Dennison in the mouth. Dennison reeled backward with a curse, catching himself on the edge of the doorway. He swiped at his mouth and stared in disbelief at the blood on his fingers.

“What the _fuck_? I’m going to have your ass in _jail_ —”

“You might want to rethink that,” Benson said. “You just told him you were trying to fuck his girlfriend while you were supposed to be arresting her father.” Barba was shaking out his fingers. “Here, let me see,” she said, reaching for his wrist. “When’s the last time you punched someone?”

“Seventy-five years ago,” Barba answered, and she smiled at him. He met her eyes. “That wasn’t about her, you know.”

“No?” she asked, still smiling as she massaged behind his knuckles with her thumbs.

He shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Right. Yes. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“We need to get you to your son,” Barba countered softly. “Then a doctor. Then breakfast.” He considered for a moment. “I might want to switch the last two, we’ll play it by ear.”

“We need to go over what happened,” Dennison said. “Palmer and Chestnut have both lawyered up, and Hayley doesn’t know anything. The guy Palmer hired to pilot the yacht doesn’t seem to know anything. We never got to do the deal because Chestnut tipped Palmer off—”

“They tried to kill me,” Benson said, glaring at Dennison. “They would’ve killed me if Barba hadn’t been there. We’re exhausted, dehydrated, he’s injured. We’ll make the case after we’ve had something to eat and he’s been cleared by a doctor.”

Dennison opened his mouth to object, registered the look on her face, and promptly closed his mouth.

“Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks,” Barba muttered, and Benson cleared her throat to cover a laugh.

Dennison turned away in disgust. “Find her some actual clothes to wear,” he barked at someone nearby.

“Liv,” Barba said, reaching for her arm when she started after Dennison. He drew his hand back when she turned toward him. He fidgeted with the front of his robe. “Can we…After you hug Noah and we get breakfast and see a doctor and talk to the FBI, do you think we could…talk about how much of an idiot I am and how forgiving you are even when I don’t deserve it?”

She laughed at the crooked, hopeful smile on his face. “Sure, but you’re going to need a good opening statement and an even better closing argument.”

“My opening statement is that I love you, but I need a couple of minutes to come up with a closing argument.”

She blinked and cleared her throat again. “That’s, uh…That’s a good start,” she said. “I’ve never known you not to have an extra speech stashed up your sleeve, though.”

Barba held out his arm and shook the sleeve of the robe. “Nope, nothing, but this isn’t mine. Once I get into a nice suit—”

She rolled her eyes. “Excuses.”

“—with the crotch cut out, of course—”

“Really, I expected you to be more prepared.”

“Olivia,” he said, “I had a _jellyfish_ on my—”

She leaned forward and kissed him to shut him up. When she drew back, she said, “Bring the scotch and grab something expensive from the liquor cabinet on your way by.”

“What about the cheese?”

“Fine, you can have my almost-half of the cheese to keep you happy until we find waffles.”

“Liv, do you have anything to say to me?” he asked, snatching up the bottle and hurrying after her as she walked out of the bathroom.

“Eh. I need a couple of minutes to think about it,” she said, and he chuckled as he followed her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Potato, who wanted to see date night...

“Thank you,” Barba said when the waitress set his menu in front of him. “Could we get your most expensive bottle of red wine, please?”

Benson gave him a smile that was half amusement, have indulgence, and he smirked in return.

“Of course, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?”

“You know what?” Barba slid the menu back to the edge of the table with two fingers. “How about you surprise me. Something expensive, because she’s buying, and something worthy of a celebration. I saved her life, you know.”

Benson rolled her eyes and smiled at the waitress. “I’ll have the seared salmon, please. And make it white wine and, since I’m buying, less than two hundred dollars.” She looked at Barba. “Because yes, you saved my life, but it’s not like you were the first person to do that.” While he grinned, she looked back at the server. “Thank you.”

“Very good,” the waitress agreed, gathering up the menus that she’d just given them.

“Actually,” Barba said, reaching a hand toward the server’s arm but stopping short of touching her. “ _Bouchard Pere et Fils Chevalier-Montrachet la Cabotte Grand Cru_ , please, on a separate check—to me. Thank you.”

The waitress hesitated, glancing between them, before making a note on her pad. “Of course, sir. I’ll check on that and be back shortly.”

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Benson told Barba when they were alone. “How expensive is that wine? Are we about to have a manager come talk to us?”

He grinned. “I could’ve ordered _Leflaive Batard Montrachet_ but I’m trying to impress you, not piss you off.”

She put her arms on the table and leaned forward. “When have I ever not been impressed by you?”

He copied her pose. “I can think of one time,” he said, his expression surprisingly somber. He considered and added, with a small quirk of his lips, “Maybe two, actually.”

“Oh, come on, Barba. I knew the water was cold, I didn’t hold that against you.”

He laughed, his whole face crinkling and softening, and she leaned a little closer over the table. His eyes sparkled in the lights. He regarded her for a few moments before asking quietly, “And?”

“And, what?”

“Do you hold…other things against me?”

“Is that supposed to be a pickup line?” she asked, even though she could see his sincerity.

“No. But we haven’t really talked much since, you know. We both almost died.”

“Since you told me you love me?”

“I did do that,” he said slowly. “I was a little drunk and didn’t exactly choose the best time to lay that on you.”

“A little drunk and a lot traumatized,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “You want to take it back?”

“No. But it doesn’t give me a free pass, so if you’re angry—” He stopped, leaning back when a man approached the table with the wine for them to confirm. Once he’d gotten that confirmation and poured them each a glass, he left them alone. Benson picked up her glass and took a sip, watching Barba over the rim.

“What does this taste like?” she asked after some consideration.

“Fennel. It’ll compliment your salmon.”

“How do you know it won’t clash with whatever she brings you?”

He shrugged, regarding her while he swirled the wine in his glass. “I’ll survive.”

“I’m not angry. And…I do feel the same way, Rafael, it’s just that it’s complicated. I have a son. As much as I want to jump in with both feet, we haven’t seen each other in a long time. You’re hanging out on yachts with beautiful young women—”

“Her eyes were too close together.”

“—and rich criminals—”

“That was an accident.”

“I know. My point is, what if we don’t know each other as well as we think?”

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “I do. And I hope you know that all I want is for you to be happy, Liv. Even if that means you asking me to get the hell out of your life again.”

“You’ll leave if I ask you to leave, but will you stay if I ask you to stay?”

He slid his glass aside so he could put his arms on the table, and he leaned forward again. “I’ll stay unless you ask me to leave.”

“So tell me, and be honest. Do you think we could make it work? _Us_? Two workaholics who always think we’re right?”

He smiled. “I might deny saying this later, but I always think you’re right.”

“You just like to argue.”

“With you? Yes.”

“That’s my point. What’s to say we won’t destroy each other?”

“Respect? Love? The knowledge that even when we’re pissed at each other, we’re always on the same side against _anything_ that might come along?”

“Hmm,” she smiled, “have you been rehearsing these answers?”

“You told me to come up with a closing argument.”

“And is that it?”

“We’ve seen each other at our highs, Liv, and God knows we’ve seen lows. You’ve seen me at my absolute worst. But somehow we’re still here, sitting across from each other. I have to believe that means something.”

She took a drink of wine, and he waited with his elbows on the table. “What about Noah?”

“I realize I’ll have to earn his trust back, and figure out some way to explain why I disappeared from his life. And I’ll need your help because I’m—”

“Do you want to be a father, Rafael?” she asked, effectively silencing him with her bluntness. She saw his throat bob as he considered the question, but she also saw him giving the question the weight of thought that it deserved. “I’m not asking you to be ready to jump into that tonight, or next week, and I know you feel like you don’t know how—”

“I’m willing to learn. If you’ll give me a chance, and if he’ll give me a chance, then…I want to learn how to be what he deserves.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and smiled. “You’re good at this. I miss having you in our corner.”

“I’m always in your corner, but…I can’t go back to the Manhattan DA’s.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know where my career will be in a year or ten years, and God knows you don’t need me to support you or buy overpriced wine, but I can promise I will always—”

She leaned over the table. “Are you trying to sleep with me tonight?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to sleep with you every night.”

She glanced toward his lap, hidden beneath the table. “Is everything healed and in working order?”

He laughed. “I mean, I haven’t tested all the functions, but I’m pretty sure.”

She bent closer and his eyes slid down to the smile curving her lips. “Are you going to invite me back to your place?”

He moved forward a bit. “Are you going to say yes?”

“Yes,” she said, closing the rest of the distance between them to press her lips against his.

He hummed happily against her mouth and felt her smile widen. When she drew back a little, he said, “I was really hoping you’d want to do that again.”

“Wanted to make sure I was still interested before fully committing to going home with you.”

“How late do you have a sitter?”

“Eight a.m..”

“That’s convenient,” he murmured, searching her face.

“Did you look at the wine list before we got here?”

He laughed quietly. “You’re ruining the magic. I told you I was trying to impress you.”

“Why didn’t you just ask for it right away?”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t know what you were going to order,” he said. He pursed his lips into a pout and she kissed him again, lingering while he licked gently into her mouth. His fingers found their way to her jaw, his touch light and warm against her skin. After long moments he pulled back reluctantly. “Speaking of orders, here’s ours,” he murmured. “That was fast.”

They both drew back as the waitress reached their table. She set a plate of seared salmon in front of Benson. “Here you go.” She slid Barba’s dish onto the table in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”

Barba stared at his plate in horror. He heard Benson make a sound that was almost a laugh, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mass of tentacles on his plate.

“Rafael?”

“Is everything alright, sir? You said to surprise you, if you have an allergy or—”

“What—” He stopped and cleared his throat. His pulse was pounding in his temples, and his palms had grown sweaty on his thighs. “What is this?” he managed after a moment.

“Jellyfish salad. It’s the newest dish our chef—I’m sorry, sir, if you’d like something else—”

“It’s fine,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “Sorry, thank you.” He tore his gaze away from the pile of tentacles and swallowed against the sting of bile. He grabbed his wine and took a drink, hating the way his hand was shaking.

“Thank you,” Benson said, flashing the other woman a smile. “I think we’re good.”

The waitress seemed unsure, but she nodded and, with one last glance at Barba, left them alone.

“I can’t eat this,” Barba muttered, the words barely audible.

“Just think of it as justice.” When his eyes managed to find her face, all trace of amusement disappeared from her expression. “You really are upset, aren’t you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I’m fine. I’m, uhh…I’m going to run to the restroom,” he said, but she reached over and grabbed his wrist before he could push his chair back.

“A little PTSD is normal after what you went through.”

“I don’t have PTSD from a jellyfish,” he hissed. His eyes slid to his plate and quickly away, his throat bobbing and his nose wrinkling. “I was surprised, is all.”

“I saw what it did to you.”

“I doubt it’s the same one, Olivia,” he said. He grimaced at his own tone and closed his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Well, you would know.”

He snorted. “Yeah. We bonded.”

“I know. I had to _un-_ bond you. With tweezers.”

He laughed, and they both ignored the current of near-hysteria hidden in the sound. His eyes found hers again. “I can still feel it,” he whispered. His hand fisted on the edge of the table, and her fingers tightened on his wrist. “God, I—” He broke off, trying to hide the shiver that passed through his body. “When I wake up, I can still feel the cold and then…the fucking—”

“You’ve been having bad dreams? Why didn’t you say anything?”

He gave her a look that clearly said _seriously?_ Before he could say anything aloud, however, she stood and quickly moved her chair around the table to his side. He eyed her sideways, too embarrassed to turn his head. “People are looking at you,” he mumbled as she slipped an arm behind his back.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve known.”

“It’s not like you don’t have your own bad memories, Liv. You almost drowned, too.”

“Maybe,” she said, leaning close against his side, “but this is about your trauma. What you’re feeling is perfectly normal.”

“Please.”

“Really,” she told him, rubbing lightly at his back. “Someday you’ll look back on this and see the humor, but don’t shy from—”

“It’s funny,” he interrupted. He turned his head to look at her. “It’s hilarious, I can see that. I should’ve just ordered a steak.” He pointed a finger at his plate, and most of the tremor had subsided from his hand. “Would _you_ eat this? After pulling them off my dick?”

She pressed her face into his shoulder for a moment to cover her laugh. “Those were quite a bit smaller,” she said.

“They didn’t feel smaller,” he shot back, and she laughed again. He drew a deep breath and released it slowly. Having her at his side was calming his racing heart, soothing his frayed nerves. As long as he didn’t look directly at the jellyfish salad, he could almost forget how it had felt to have an entire jellyfish latched onto his—

She kissed his cheek, and he side-eyed her again with a small smile. “No bad dreams tonight,” she murmured near his ear.

“I expect not.”

“You feeling okay? Getting some color back in your cheeks.”

“I’m alright. You should eat your salmon before it gets cold.”

“You want to share?”

“I might skip straight to dessert.”

“Share my salmon, then we’ll share dessert.”

“What about this?” he asked, grimacing as he poked a finger toward the edge of his plate.

“We’ll have it boxed up to go.”

“You’re not going to spread it all over me like some sort of therapy, are you?”

She smiled and scratched lightly at his nape. He leaned into her touch, barely aware he was doing it. “No, we can release them back into the ocean. Or at least the Hudson,” she said.

He laughed and turned toward her, threading his fingers into her hair. He kissed her lips, but only for a moment before pulling her into a hug and pressing his face into the side of her neck. “Thanks,” he mumbled, unable to put into words, at least right away, how much her support meant. She could point out the humor in the situation without belittling his feelings, and he didn’t want to imagine life without her. He’d already spent far too much time away from her, and every moment had been worse for it.

“Now, if we have any leftover _dessert_ , though, we can consider some…spreading…”

He laughed into her hair and kissed her neck. “You smell nice. And yes, I think we can make it work.”

“Me, too,” she whispered, drawing back to give him another kiss. “Now let’s move this over there and try the salmon.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By request, Benson helps Barba get over his fear of jellyfish with a little hands-on - and tentacles-on - therapy.

Benson yawned as she walked out of Barba’s bedroom, absently scratching at her shoulder. She was wearing her underwear and an undershirt that she’d stolen from his dresser. He was in the kitchen, wearing nothing but briefs, and she paused for a moment to admire the sight.

She could tell he was upset, though. Even from across the living room, she could see the tension in the lines of his body. He was standing at the counter, staring into the takeout container.

“Little early for breakfast,” she said, noting the way he startled at the sound of her voice even though he did an admirable job hiding his flinch. “Little late for a midnight snack,” she added, walking slowly toward him.

He looked at her, managing a smile that was just a little sickly. “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked.

“Thought maybe you snuck out on me,” she teased, “but then I remembered this is your apartment.”

He laughed, but she could hear the strain in the sound. His expression was apologetic as he watched her approach. “Sorry,” he repeated. He reached out a hand, resting his fingers on her hip when she stopped beside him.

“Did you have a bad dream?” she asked quietly, glancing toward the container of jellyfish salad.

“Not exactly.” He looked at the carton and quickly away, swallowing. “It’s like I could feel it out here in the refrigerator…” He shook his head and drew a breath. “It’s stupid, I know. Let’s go back to bed.”

“Do you want me to dump it in the disposal?” She’d planned on taking it home, but there was no reason to keep it if it made Barba so uncomfortable that he left the warmth of his bed to confront it.

“No, I…” He looked sideways at the container. His tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip. “If I were hypothetically interested in…acknowledging some sort of, um. Trauma or whatever, what do you think you’d recommend to…get it out of my head,” he said, grimacing as he gestured toward his ear with his free hand.

She rubbed lightly at his back. “I don’t think you’ll like my suggestion.”

He turned toward her, putting both of his hands on her hips, and she rested her palm against his chest. “I learned early that you can’t let fear make you curl up in a corner—You face it, you power through it. But this fear is irrational. It’s not like it’ll ever happen again. Why can’t I just…let it go?”

“You were in a lot of pain—”

“Pain,” he said with a grimace. “What’s pain? It’s temporary. I’ve been hurt worse than that and—”

“You gonna tell me you never had nightmares about other traumas?” she cut in. Her tone was gentle, but he snapped his mouth shut. “The first thing is, you need to stop being so hard on yourself. Don’t forget that I was there. I heard you say it was the worst thing you’d ever felt.”

“I was being melodramatic.” He sighed when she gave him a knowing look. “Fine, you’re right.” His lips quirked into a smile. “You’re always right.” He leaned forward to give her a quick kiss before touching his forehead to hers. “What do I do?”

“You want to tell me how you feel right now?”

“I feel like I _should_ be the happiest guy in the world right now, standing here with you, but all I can think about is those fucking _things_ crawling around in that carton…”

“You know they’re long dead.”

“Yeah, well, it turns out they still hurt like a sonofabitch even after—”

“But they can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know.” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I know that. But I can feel them behind me, Liv, my fucking hands are sweaty and my heart won’t stop jumping around in my chest. How the fuck do I power through something when I already _know_ it’s irrational?”

She lifted her hands to his jaw, rubbing lightly at his beard with her thumbs. “I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone.”

“What do I do?”

“You said it yourself, what you went through will never happen again. Your body remembers the pain and it triggers your fight or flight, but you _know_ that’s just a box of seafood.”

He hesitated, searching her eyes. “You want me to touch it?” he guessed.

“I want you to convince your mind and body that there’s no reason to be afraid.”

“You want me to touch it.”

“It won’t hurt this time. I promise you.”

“You want me to, what, stick my dick in the leftovers?”

She leaned closer until her lips were almost touching his. “I want to make nicer memories for you,” she murmured, holding his stare. “Do you trust me to try?”

“I trust you,” he breathed.

* * *

“How’re you feeling?” she asked, straddling his stomach. He was laid out on his back on the bed, naked, with two towels spread beneath him. She was still wearing his shirt and her underwear, but she was prepared to remove at least the shirt if it would help distract him.

He eyed the takeout container in her hand. “Sort of difficult to answer that one,” he said. His hands were resting on her bare thighs, and she could feel the tenseness of his body. “I’m not unhappy with the view,” he said, managing a genuine smile as he slid his gaze back up to hers.

“But you’re a little freaked out, that’s understandable,” she assured him. “You know you’re in control here, if you say stop then I stop. We’ll go slow, alright?”

“Don’t try to coddle me. Handcuff me down if necessary.”

She smiled, because they both knew she wasn’t going to do that. “You know I love you?”

She saw his throat work as he swallowed, felt his hands tighten on her legs. He nodded his head against the pillow. “You’re right, I’m a little freaked out. I really hate feeling like this.”

“I know.” She put a hand on his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“We should revisit this position later,” he said, sliding his hands a little higher up her thighs.

She laughed quietly and leaned down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “That can be arranged,” she murmured, pulling away before he could distract her with his tongue. “Ready?” she asked as she straightened. His expression tightened as he watched her reach her fingers into the container and lift out a piece of jellyfish. “It’s a little cold,” she warned. She moved her hand over his stomach.

“Wait.”

She hesitated. The chunk of tentacle dripped and his skin twitched at the contact. He grimaced, his fingers digging into her thighs.

“No, don’t wait,” he said quickly. “Do it.”

She laid the wet piece of jellyfish high on his stomach. He stared at it as it gleamed against his skin. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, but he wasn’t in full panic mode yet. “Does that hurt?” she asked softly.

“No.” The word was barely audible, spoken without conviction.

“Does this hurt?” she asked, sliding her other hand up to brush a thumb over his nipple.

He frowned, his gaze flicking from the jellyfish to her thumb and up to her face. “No,” he repeated, the wrinkles easing from his forehead as he met her eyes.

She picked up another piece of tentacle and laid it above his bellybutton. “You doing okay?” she asked when he tried to shift beneath her weight. He nodded, releasing a slow breath, and she bent forward to press a kiss to his chest. “How does this feel?”

“Confusing,” he admitted.

She moved backward onto his thighs and set another piece on his lower belly, just to the left of his narrow strip of hair. She could tell by the hitch in his breath that his anxiety was increasing. He was tense, bracing himself for pain that he knew in the rational part of his brain wasn’t going to come. She ran her dry hand down his side to his hip.

“Will you close your eyes?” she asked. He looked up at her, and she could see the fear and uncertainty in his stare. She didn’t ask him to trust her, because she knew he did. It was his own mind he was battling, not her.

After a moment his eyelids fluttered closed.

She slid her hand from his hip to his thigh. “Stomach,” she murmured before setting a piece of tentacle on the other side of his happy trail. “Chest,” she said a few moments later, laying a chunk close to his nipple.

“This is so gross,” he muttered without opening his eyes, and she smiled.

“You’re doing very well,” she said.

“You can’t hear my heart.”

“I can,” she countered softly. She slipped her fingers over to his inner thigh. “I’m going to touch you,” she told him. “It’s only my hand.”

“Good luck, it feels like it’s crawled all the way into my intestines.”

She laughed in spite of herself. She ran her fingers over his cock. “It’s still here,” she assured him. “Just a little nervous.”

He laughed, too, the sound choked but genuine. It ended on a bit of a whine when she wrapped her hand around him, giving him a few gentle strokes. She could feel him growing in her grip, a natural reaction to her touch in spite of his stress, but she knew he wasn’t going to get much harder while he was in so much turmoil.

“Jesus, I should be enjoying this more,” he said.

“Plenty of time for that,” she assured him. She’d picked up a tentacle and was holding it in her other palm, letting it warm to her skin. “We are definitely going to need a shower first, though.” She laid the warmed jellyfish over the base of his shaft slowly, watching his face. His eyelids twitched but didn’t open. She ran her thumb up his length while she got another piece to heat with her hand.

“This doing anything for you?” he asked in a strained attempt at a joke.

“I’m not complaining about the view,” she said, and his lips quirked into a smile. He grimaced when he felt her lay another piece over his balls, and his fingers tightened on her thighs, but he held himself rigidly still. She reached up to set a chunk on his stomach.

“I need a drink.”

“We’re almost done,” she said, moving quicker now to place pieces across his skin—stomach, chest, thigh, back to his crotch. “Maybe we should just get pizza next time, hmm?” She paused to survey her work. He had small, slimy strips of jellyfish spread all over his front, and she knew the sight was going to trigger the panic center in his brain.

If she was being honest with herself, the sight made _her_ uneasy; it was impossible not to remember what it had been like, pulling the stingers from his body. It had been traumatic for her and she hadn’t even felt the pain.

“You feel my weight on your legs?”

He swallowed and nodded against the pillow.

“You feel my hand on your hip?” A nod. “Hear my voice?”

“Yes.”

“Open your eyes,” she commanded gently.

He hesitated a few seconds, gathering his resolve, before complying. He looked down his body, his gaze skating from one chunk of sea creature to the next. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed as his eyes landed on his crotch and the tentacles she’d carefully draped over his cock. His fingers curled into her legs just above her knees, his grip painful. “Oh, Jesus.”

“They don’t hurt,” she reminded him.

“Um…” He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Rafa.”

“Yeah.”

“Rafael.”

He tore his gaze away from his crotch to meet her eyes. He stared up at her for several seconds, trying to focus on her face, her touch, her weight. “Yeah,” he repeated.

“They don’t hurt.”

“No,” he agreed.

She leaned forward, careful not to dislodge any of the seafood, and kissed him. She let her lips linger against his until she felt some of the pressure of his fingers lessen, and then she deepened the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She kept her movements unhurried, reassuring him that she was with him and not going anywhere.

She kissed him until she felt his body beginning to relax beneath her, until she could feel the change in his kiss and knew that she had more than half of his focus. Then she levered herself up, sitting back on his thighs. “How do they feel?” she asked when he looked himself over again.

“Disgusting,” he said. “Wet.”

“No pain?”

“No.”

“How’s your heart?”

“In love with you.”

She laughed, startled by the answer, and felt an unexpected flush of pleasure. “You think it’s safe to start taking them off?” she asked, ignoring his smirk. “You need more time?”

“I’m okay,” he said. He paused. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m—”

“You had to pull those fuckers off me, I know that wasn’t easy. This has to be weird for you.”

“It won’t hurt this time.”

He swallowed and nodded, rubbing his hands along her thighs. “As long as we both know that,” he murmured. He tipped his chin up to meet her kiss when she bent down over him again. “And you won’t need tweezers this time,” he added when she straightened.

She reached up and plucked one of the chunks off his stomach, dropping it into the takeout container. “Guess I’m not offering this to Lucy anymore,” she said.

“ _I’m_ not eating it,” he answered, and she flashed him an amused smile. He watched her slowly remove piece after piece, working her way down his body. She paused, meeting his eyes before pulling the first strip of jellyfish from his balls. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relaxing into the bed. She ran her thumb over the spot, smearing the sauce against his skin, smiling when his cock twitched in interest.

She lifted off another piece of tentacle, dropping it into the carton before swirling her finger through the mess it left on his sensitive skin. He shifted his shoulders and slid his hands up to her inner thighs, massaging gently with his thumbs as she continued.

When she’d removed the last piece, she tipped her head. “Hmm,” she said, eyeing his erection for a moment before looking up at his face. “That didn’t happen last time.”

He grinned up at her.

“I didn’t even have to take off my shirt.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, cocking an eyebrow and casting a pointed look at her chest.

She leaned down to kiss him, and his hands slid up to her sides. “How do you feel?” she murmured against his lips.

“Better.”

“Good. Why don’t you go get cleaned up so I can go back to bed?”

He laughed into her kiss. She could hear and feel his relief. “Thank you, Liv,” he said.

“For torturing you?” she teased.

“For everything.” His emotions were too raw for him to elaborate, but the soft brush of her lips told him she understood.

After a moment, she said, “Let’s go take a shower.” She paused. “I think it’ll end better than the first time we showered together,” she added, kissing him again as they both laughed.


End file.
